Playing Doctor
by Bonnie Lizzie
Summary: "It's the late 1800's. Gregory House is a doctor with a limp. James Wilson is an oncologist with an illness." This is just a test. It's something fun to write and, hopefully, read... A 19th century version of HouseWilson. We'll have to see how many characters we can throw in there :D


**Hur hur, I don't even know what I'm doing….**

**I think I'm just experimenting, here… It **_**sounded**_** fun. I mean... I love history… I love HouseWilson….. .x. Should be a good match for me, right? **

**Let's test that? This will be our Pilot Chapter.**

**Based in the late 1800's.**

* * *

**Pilot Chapter / Introduction**

Doctor Gregory House limped down the dimly lit, snow-coated cobble road of an alleyway in a New Jersey neighborhood. The dark smog above them blended in nicely with the night sky. In one hand, the doctor carried a both bag of tools and supplies _and_ a light suitcase of personal items. In the other hand, he gripped a custom-carved cane with an ornately decorated grip designed to look like a crow or raven. The polished spruce wood was carved to look like a gnarled tree on which the bird perched.

The doctor glanced around the small houses in the alleyway, looking for the right one. He let out an irritated sigh and walked to the side of the road, leaning his cane against one of the stone and wood walls. He pulled a slip of paper out of his trench coat pocket and glanced again at the number on the telegram. A courting couple strolled past Doctor House as he stuffed the paper back into his pocket. They glanced at him sideways, obviously concerned that he was in the shadows, grumbling to himself.

Nonetheless, the doctor picked up his cane again and continued down the road to his designated house – 221B. It was nothing overly fancy, but this patient was well-off in the money department. Gripping the door knocker, which was designed as a lion that gripped the iron ring tightly between its teeth, Doctor House loudly knocked on the oak wood door. When he got no answer, he knocked again, calling loudly "Hello-o? It's Doctor Gregory House! You telegrammed me!" He paused, staring at the door expectantly. Still no answer. He muttered darkly under his breath and tossed his cane in the air, quickly snapped his hand out and catching the cane near the foot. He limped over to one of the windows that had an empty flowerbox underneath it. Loudly, he knocked on the window with the handle of his cane – Not hard enough to break the glass, however.

The door suddenly opened. "Stop – Stop!" Someone called from the doorway. "Stop it, already, I'm here!"

"Took you long enough," Doctor House limped back to the door. "_I_ came here for _you_. I shouldn't have to wait outside in the dark and the cold for you to finish your tea or that final paragraph in your novel." He grouchily lectured, setting the foot of his cane down properly, again. "I mean, _really_. Show some courtesy for those who are here to aid you."

"I apologize – I had gotten out of bed and felt sick to the stomach. It couldn't have been avoided."

"Well, I hope you know that I won't be answering doors for you, while I'm here." Doctor House hobbled into the building when his patient moved aside to let him in. "I'm your doctor, _not_ your maid." Over his shoulder, he jokingly called and sad "Although, the outfits _are_ pretty tempting." He stopped in the entryway and turned to look at the man who let him in. "Unfortunately for you, _this_ will have to do." He gestured to his outfit, which was a dark gray pair of cloth pants, a typical dress shirt with a black, silk vest buttoned over top and a trench coat over it all. He had a neat bow tie and a short top hat to complete the whole thing.

"And I'm _so_ disappointed." The man in pajamas said sarcastically and smirked as he close the door behind them, bolting it shut. "Really. I am."

"I wouldn't blame you." Doctor House pulled his wool coat off, draping it over one arm and setting his hat on top. "So why do you need me here, _Doctor_ James Wilson?"

James Wilson set a hand on the wall, obviously light-headed at the moment. "I thought it was obvious, wasn't it?" He tilted his head curiously. "I'm _ill_. I can't care for myself in this state."

"Then get a _maid_."

"_Maids _aren't _doctors_." Wilson stated bluntly, like it was the most obvious thing ever. "_You_, however, _are_. Hence the reason I hired_ you_…"

"_Or_ you just don't trust help." House screwed his face up comically in an over-exaggerated expression of thinking. "Which just _begs_ the question: _Why_ do you trust_ doctors_ instead?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?" Wilson raised a single eyebrow skeptically.

"Doctors have access to their patients when the patients aren't conscious."

"Well," Doctor James Wilson inched along the wall, heading for the stairs that led upstairs, which were just across from the entryway. "I think the only thing I have to fear from _you_ is maid jokes and cheap parlor tricks." He threw a glance at House, a slight grin on his face. "Shall I show you to your room?"

House stared after him, unsure whether or not he should smile back or not. "Of course. Lead the way…" He quickly snapped back to his normal mood. "So what kind of doctor are you, anyways?" He followed Wilson up the steps.

"An oncologist," Wilson panted, already out of breath from just climbing the stairs. "I study the various types of cancer. And you?"

"Well, I _hope_ you know my practice. You _are_ the one who summoned me here, after all…"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd tell me about your leg."

"Oh," House glanced at his leg as the two doctors trekked up the stairs. "Is it important?"

"Not really," Wilson stopped at the top of the stairwell. "But, since we'll be living together for a little while, I'd like to know more about you. I mean, _other_ than the grouchy old man thing."

"'Grouchy old man'…" House grumbled to himself, joining Wilson on the top floor of the building. He sighed loudly and dramatically. "I was shot," With his cane, he pointed to his shoulder, the right side of his neck and his right thigh. "Here, here and here."

"What?" Wilson's eyes widened. "By _who_? Who would do that to a _doctor_?" House noted the amount of sympathy and empathy this man seemed to have.

"A patient."

"Why?!"

"His wife died. I couldn't do anything for her. She died and _he_ became an idiot." He gestured down the hallway for Wilson to continue. "Did you know that shooting your wife's doctor solves everything _and_ brings your wife back from the dead?"

Wilson pursed his lips, knitting his brow and shaking his head. "That's _awful_…" His voice cracked and he was thrown into a bout of coughing. House watched curiously until the oncologist was gasping for air again, his hand flat against the wall. "I don't understand how someone could do that…"

"You know," House watched Wilson skeptically, following him slowly down the carpeted hallway. "You talk an awful _lot_ for a sick man."

Wilson glanced over at House, a slight smirk on his face and a single eyebrow raised. "Are you suggesting that I'm lying, Doctor House?" He asked with a mixture of genuine curiosity and defensiveness.

"Everybody lies," House stated casually. "I suppose _you_ count, too."

"I suppose I do," Wilson stopped in front of a door that was at the end of the hallway, beside a window that looked out into another emptied flowerbox and a small courtyard that could be accessed via the rest of the buildings surrounding it. "But what could I possibly get from _you_ by lying?"

"Well, you'd get my wonderfully enjoyable company." House leaned forward to glance out the window, using his cane to push aside the silk curtains. It was a square courtyard with a small fountain in the middle that was more reminiscent of a bird bath than anything. Some bare bushes hugged the walls of the houses, naked and exposed to the harshness that winter has yet to bring.

"I _don't_ think that's why you're here." Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm beginning to think you're a bit more cynical than you let on, Doctor House."

"_And_ I'm a bad influence."

"Well, that's a little predominant, don't you think?" The oncologist nodded to the door they stood in front of. "This will be your room while you stay here. If you need any blankets or sheets, they're in the closet. My room is this one, and it's right across from yours so you don't have to go very far." He hobbled pathetically to the room he spoke of, the room adjacent to House's, and opened the door. "I'll let you get settled in. While you do that, I'm going to lay down and try to get some sleep." He hobbled into the room, leaving the door open.

"Yeah," House let the curtain fall and opened his door, glancing skeptically at Wilson before limping in. "You do that. _I'll_ look into something worthwhile – Like a maid."

* * *

House straightened his spine, his hands placed on the smalls of his back as the joints popped loudly. His bed was finally made. For whatever reason, the sheets decided they didn't want to play fair and kept sliding off one corner of the bed as soon as its opposite corner was covered.

The pain in his leg was flaring. He cringed and slowly tried to massage most of the pain away – Failing, of course. So, instead, he limped over to the case of personal items he brought with him and unlatched it, pulling out a good-sized hemp bag. Tugging the twine string that held the bag shut, he reached inside the bag and pulled out one or two of its content – Opium pills. They looked similar to whole peppercorns in size, shape and color.

He didn't even wait for the pain pills to kick in. He was already rummaging through his bag of medical supplies, searching for the small glass jar he brought with him. Once it was in his grip, House pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and grabbed his cane. From there, he headed across the hall and into Wilson's bedroom. "Wake up, wake up, wake uh-hup…" House called loudly and casually as he slowed to a stop by Wilson's bed. "I've got a thing for you." He held the jar up and shook it.

Groggy, Wilson slowly blinked, yawned, and stretched with his fingers and toes both reaching for the foot of the bed. "Aryoudun?" He slurred tiredly.

"You bet, sleepy-head." House pulled the wicker chair from the corner of the room to the side of Wilson's bed. Leaning his cane against the wall that the bed's headboard was pushed up to, House sat down on the chair and unscrewed the jar's lid. "And I got a special surprise for you, too."

Wilson was a little more coherent, now. "Yeah?" He muttered, watching the jar suspiciously. "What's that?"

"An alcohol rub! Yay!" He stuck his finger in the jar and came out with a glob of yellow, translucent goop. "Aren't you excited?"

"I'm ecstatic…" Wilson rolled his eyes and leaned his head back on the pillows. Fumbling slightly with the buttons, he managed to unbutton his pajama top with relative ease.

House pulled the top aside to get at Wilson's chest. As he stuck his fingers into the jar to gather more of the goop, he spoke. "It's a nasal decongestant and cough represent all in one, disgusting-smelling ointment rub. It should help you sleep easier…" He trailed off when he glanced up at Wilson, whose eyes were closed and breathing had slowed – He was asleep again. "In my day," He mock-ranted quietly in an old man's voice, "Stories about alcohol rubs were what we lived for. We'd sit around the fire and listen to our grandpoppies tell us about the different smells there were…" He trailed off and took this chance to look his patient over.

Doctor James Wilson was the same age as House – Perhaps a couple of years younger. He had well-kept brown hair that was combed subtly to the right of his face, hiding the fact that he had an unusually large forehead. He had nice, high cheekbones and a square jaw that was barren of hair or even stubble. The oncologist's face seemed permanently imprinted by distinctive dimples and an understated pair of crow's feet. Even his nose was a distinguishing feature on his over-all facial structure. Further down, his chest was also hairless. It was as though this man was incapable of growing hair anywhere but his forearms and the top of his head.

Although his gut wasn't something that could be used to wash laundry with, it was still surprisingly thin and fit, considering his age, height and lifestyle. His nipples were about the size of quarters and were a dark pink against the smooth, pale skin that surrounded them.

House blinked when he realized how long he'd been staring unnecessarily at Wilson. He reached out and dabbed Wilson's chest tentatively with the goop. He was used to seeing patients _naked_ – This is nothing. The Opium he took was taking over his senses, making him see things differently. That was the one downside of the pills.

"Problem?"

House jumped and snapped his glare to Wilson's face. "No," He growled. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Weren't you the one that argued that doctors shouldn't be trusted around unconscious patients?"

"I don't recall saying that."

"Right, OK."

"I think it was you who said that."

"Oh, is that right?"

"I don't say smart, philosophical things like that. I'm just house doctor, remember? I'm only supposed to diagnose and help the patient." House spoke with a comically screwed up face as he methodically rubbed the ointment into Wilson's chest.

"Oh, that's right." Wilson spoke as if he was just remembering something. "You're _not_ an acclaimed doctor or anything. You're just a nurse."

House weighed this thoughtfully as he ran his hand over Wilson's neck, rubbing the rest of the ointment in. "That _is_ kind of what I just described, isn't?"

"Mhm…" Wilson closed his eyes again. "You know, I could have done this on my own."

"No you couldn't have."

"Why not? I'm a doctor."

"And, as you've stated many times before, you're also _sick_. You would have missed spots." He patted Wilson's stomach as he got to his feet. "I'm done. Put your shirt back on, you slapper..." He limped out of the room to rinse his hands off under the tap in the bathroom that was just down the hall. "Ooh, fancy…" House muttered, glancing around the washroom. Wilson definitely had a good paying job. He even had a bathtub that was also a shower.

Washing the awful smelling ointment off his hands, House loudly hummed 'The Star-Spangled Banner', surprisingly in tune. "And the la-hand of the free! And the home! Of the! Brave!" He sang the last line loudly while drying his hand off on the towel that was draped on the towel rack beside the sink. "You've got a nice bathroom, Wilson." He called as he limped his way back to the bedroom. When he entered the room, he said much more quietly "That's a compliment." He stopped at the side of Wilson' bed and frowned. Wilson's eyes were closed again and his shirt was still open. "Are you actually asleep this time?" House asked in a nonchalant voice.

Wilson remained silent and House frowned. "I've got to do _everything_ around here, don't I?" He sighed. Leaning forward and buttoning the oncologist's shirt up. He stopped when he got to the fourth button, squinting his eyes and moving his lips silently. He unbuttoned and moved Wilson's shirt aside even more, exposing the oncologist's shoulder and upper arm. "Wake up," House ordered loudly and quickly as he moved the other side of Wilson's shirt aside. When the oncologist didn't wake, House started patting the sides of Wilson's face. "Hey, wake up!" On the outside, House knew what he was doing. But, on the inside, he was panicking. He didn't exactly _enjoy_ his patients dying .

Wilson still didn't answer. House gripped Wilson's shoulders and pulled him forward. "Wake up, Doctor Wilson – The building's on fire!" House yelled loudly as he pulled the pajama top off the rest of the way. House managed to examine Wilson's back before he bucked and woke up, his eyes wide.

"It's on me!" Wilson screamed, scraping at his blanket-covered legs and his bare arms, trying to push away from House, who was holding him and trying to grip his wrists. "It's burning me! _Please_, let me _go_! _Please_!" He begged, almost in tears.

"There is no fire, you're safe, here!" House had to yell over Wilson. "You're not on fire and neither is your bed. I put it out, OK?" Wilson's screams lowered to a yell, then to a whimper. While Wilson was whimpering quietly in House's grip, House examined the rest of Wilson to confirm his thoughts.

Deliria, fatigue, high fever, vomiting, bruises on his back and raised pink rashes spotting Wilson's arms and shoulders… "Wilson, I need you to listen." House spoke quickly, letting his patient lay back on the bed. "You don't have the common cold – You have Smallpox. And we both need to be treated or we could die."

* * *

**And that's all you get for the introduction, mwah ha ha...**

**OK, so I obviously had to change some things. Like, for example, the reason House's leg is the way that it is. But I tried to play off of the episode when he got shot by a patient's wife... I also changed his addiction from Vicodin to Opium, since Vicodin didn't exist till around 1960's...**

**Please tell me what you think. This is just something to have fun with - I love history and I love HouseWilson, so it would be a joy to continue this. But I'll only continue if people actually read / enjoy it, too XD**

**Sorry if I missed some spelling and grammar - I'm uploading / writing this at school, bwah ha ha...**


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